


in the snow, a promise

by qainaat



Category: Gintama
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, LITERALLY, Short One Shot, manju saves lives, this is the result of going through gintoki's wiki page
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 07:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15213734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qainaat/pseuds/qainaat
Summary: snow, a grave, and a boy who lost everything.





	in the snow, a promise

**Author's Note:**

> a quick one shot to get rid of my writer's block. enjoy! and leave a kudos or two :P

Snow cascades down to settle on his almost-numb body, and as more time passes, the layer of snow accumulates to gain a solid texture, caking his clothes and exposed skin; snow he could no longer feel. He may be cold and may be shivering with whatever minimal reserves of energy he has in him, but he cannot tell. He is dull physically and mentally and cannot bring himself to think or feel anything.

He is no longer the man of legend. He is just an empty shell with nothing left to live for. What he loved— _whom_ he loved—and the reason for which he fought were all gone and soon, this shell of the White Demon too shall disappear within the snow, with nothing to remember him by. The world will fade around him, and so will his memory. 

A fitting end, he supposes, for the man who couldn’t protect anything.

The one thought that governs his mind is to give in. His shallow breaths start to feel suffocating and he feels his consciousness dissolving. 

_Sorry. . ._ _Shoyou_ _—_

He hears feet shuffling against the snow behind him, or at least behind whatever he was lying on. The sounds are low and indistinct, but enough to hold Gintoki’s attention for just a while. The world gradually comes back to him, albeit vague and unfamiliar. He hears someone speak in words he cannot make out. All he can understand is that it is a woman. He doesn’t know whether she’s alone or not. However, she seems to be talking to someone.

Even in this deep, dark abyss, a faint smell greets his nose. He knows the smell but can’t quite place where it’s from. He welcomes the feeling for that one instant but is immediately met with the pain in his stomach, a pain his mind had long suppressed. He craves the smell, and as he does, his senses slowly seem to return to him. The woman’s voice is much more distinct now, but his thoughts are occupied by the desperate hunger that he felt. The desperation in turn revives memories, and he realises he has been hungry since what felt like forever.

He is hungry and thirsty and tired and lost. He longs for just an ounce of strength. He is in a graveyard, he recalls. The hard surface he has been leaning against all this time is a gravestone. The woman is talking to someone—this stone. Her voice is gravelly and heavy for a woman, so he infers it’s an old woman. He holds on to whatever life he has left in him.  _Just a little longer._

“Hey, Gran,” he calls out to her in a voice unknown to him, surprising even himself. The woman draws in a quick breath, taken aback. He tries to remember what the source of the smell is called. The name is on the tip of his tongue. “Are those. . .manju?” The feeling in his stomach is unbearable, and he feels whether it’s the desperation that’s forcing him to speak out. “Can I have some? I’m starving to death here.”

_It is the end. So why. . ._ _?_

The woman remains silent for some time. He then hears her huff. “These belong to my husband. Ask him,” she says. There is a hint of a taunt in her voice, but there is also a certain amiable feeling that Gintoki hasn’t felt in ages. It is welcoming and friendly, and her response acknowledges his presence; that he hasn’t truly disappeared. That he was still here, somehow.

He doesn’t even realise what he is doing, but in the next instant, he is gulping down one of the manju. The sensation of taste on his tongue, the feeling of food in his starved stomach bring out a newfound strength in him. He feels energy, he feels some warmth, and he feels life gradually coming back to him. 

_I had given up. So why. . .?_

The feeling of warmth is quickly replaced by the presence of the snow resting on his body. He is shivering. He is cold. Most importantly, he is  _alive._

The woman clears her throat. “What did my husband say?”

He doesn’t remember asking her husband for permission. “Beats me. The dead don’t talk.”

She chuckles under her breath. “You’re asking for it.” He can sense the frown in her words. “Don’t blame me if you get cursed!”

This isn’t how old women are supposed to react to unkempt brats stealing food from their dead husbands. She is talking to him like he was some old friend, like someone she had known all her life. She was being. . .kind. He is sure he has never met this woman, and that she doesn’t know him either. So why was she being kind? Why be concerned for this stranger?

His life, though just a mere flicker, may have been sustained by the manju, but it was mostly her words that truly restored him. Whether or not she intended to, she had saved his life.

“The dead don’t talk and they don’t eat dango,” he retorts. “So, I made a one-sided promise.”

His lips curve into a weak smile. He is cold and in pain, but his heart feels much lighter. 

He is a failure, and he wasn’t supposed to survive this long. He has been living only because of the kindness from other people that he feels he doesn’t deserve. And now, he is here with the woman who greeted a brat like him as a friend. 

“I won’t ever forget this debt,” he says. “Your wife doesn’t have much longer to live, but I’m going to protect her in your stead.”

He is not her friend. He has no one and he is alone. He is not loved. He is not a legend. He is not a fighter. He is not a rebel. He is not an enemy of the government and neither is he in war.  

But for now, he’s just a boy saved by this old woman whom he now owes his life. It is his obligation, and for as long as this woman lives, he has to live and protect her; the old woman who lacks the power he has but possesses the strength he lacks.

And as long as he has someone to protect, he can live on.


End file.
